


Five Times James Flint and Jack Rackham Cross Paths (and one time they don't)

by forbiddenarchives



Category: Black Sails
Genre: 5+1 Things, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, also some book nerdery, and a really queer new year's eve party, contains so much more Anne than I expected, exploration of a friendship of sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:53:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21983962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forbiddenarchives/pseuds/forbiddenarchives
Summary: The first time Captain Flint becomes aware of the existence of Jack Rackham is when he has to split a prize with Charles Vane’s crew, and Vane demands the books.“The books?” Flint asks, incredulous.“The books,” Vane repeats, happy to explain the concept. “You know, ink, paper. Dead men’s words that no one cares about.”
Relationships: And so many more - Relationship, Jack Rackham & James Flint, background Anne/Max - Relationship, background Jack/Anne - Relationship, some Charles/Jack if you squint
Comments: 69
Kudos: 150
Collections: Black Sails Gift Exchange 2019





	1. for books are not completely dead things (1707)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TJ_73](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TJ_73/gifts).



> Written for mostly-articulate-flailing on tumblr for the Black Sails Gift Exchange 2019. 
> 
> Their prompt was: "anything with Jack and Flint, not as a ship, but as 2 characters we don't see in the same room too often. It would be cool to see them played off each other."
> 
> Chapter titles taken from _Areopagitica_ and _The Anatomy of Melancholy_.

The first time Captain Flint becomes aware of the existence of Jack Rackham is when he has to split a prize with Charles Vane’s crew, and Vane demands the books.

“The books?” Flint asks, incredulous.

“The books,” Vane repeats, happy to explain the concept. “You know, ink, paper. Dead men’s words that no one cares about.”

“But…” Flint swallows the protest of all book lovers — and besides, he doesn’t want to be indelicate about the fact that Charles Vane’s literacy is widely known to be patchy at best. Just for once, he’d like this sort of negotiation to go smoothly.

“They’re not for me.” Vane spits as if the mere idea that he might read is distasteful. He nods towards a lanky youth on the quarterdeck who is trying his best to look the part of a tough pirate. A slim shadow hovers behind him. “They’re for him.”

Flint remembers the moment he boarded the deck of the prize ship. Vane’s men were about to be cornered by the merchantman’s crew, and Vane was fighting off three at once, a snarling beast with murder in his eyes. Behind him stood the youth, gripping a bloodied sword that shook almost as much as its owner.

“First time over the rail.” Vane has followed his gaze. “But Jack’s got a head for words and numbers that might be useful.”

Flint feels himself soften. “I’m sure we can work something out.”

* * *

A while later, Flint stands in what used to be the cabin of the merchantman’s captain and considers his selection. There’s the usual assortment of sea charts and log books and religious texts that he skims through, but there are also a few leather-bound volumes of fiction and philosophy as well as some poetry.

As captain of the party that decided the battle, Flint has claimed first choice over the library. But when Vane’s protégé enters and his eyes light up, suddenly he’s not so sure anymore. Jack darts over to the shelves and slides a delighted finger across the spines, his eyes devouring the titles.

Flint realizes that the man with the shaggy dark hair is older than he looked from afar, in his early twenties at least. With his bare face and slim build, it’s no wonder he seemed more of an age with the midshipmen Flint used to command. As a pirate, he doesn’t just look young — he looks dead already.

Jack’s finger comes to rest on a translation of Racine’s _Andromaque_ , and Flint finds himself pulling out the slim cloth-bound form of _Areopagitica_ he spotted earlier.

“Take this,” he says, and then, after a thought, adds some Donne. “And this.”

Flint selects for himself some lesser-known Hobbes he’s always meant to catch up on and a solitary volume of Burton’s _Anatomy of Melancholy_. Perhaps one day he’ll manage to complete the set, even if it won’t compare to the one he remembers from Thomas’ library. Jack looks at him, wide-eyed, unsure what to make of his recommendations.

When he’s through with the captain’s reading material Flint grabs the log books and turns to leave. He stops before he reaches the open door.

“Oh,” he says, and Jack’s head snaps up from the engrossing words, “and grow a beard.”


	2. lend me a halter, or a knife (1708)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads-up: this chapter involves a veiled discussion of sexual harassment, but nothing explicit at all.

These moments still make him feel awkward as fuck, Jack thinks, as he’s approaching Captain Flint and his quartermaster in the Guthrie tavern. Anne is by his side, and her presence calms him — it’s easier to project confidence when he’s not just speaking for himself, when there’s someone else he’s doing it all for.

They’ve been waiting for the right moment, for Flint and Gates to sit back and finally relax. Jack is keenly aware of Flint’s reputation by now, and he’s not going to assume that one moment spent poring over books together a year ago constitutes anything warranting a friendship. Thankfully, Hal Gates has been blessed with all the social graces that Flint appears to lack, and he greets them warmly.

“Jack! I hear congratulations are in order?” Gates smiles while Flint considers them neutrally.

“Indeed.” Jack folds himself down on one of the chairs at their table. Anne sits as well, scowling. “Shame about Hooper, though. It was just his luck.”

“So I’ve heard.” Gates nods and waves to the bartender. As soon as a new round of drinks sloshes on the table, he raises his tankard. “To the new quartermaster of the _Ranger_!”

Jack obliges him and raises his own drink. Flint inclines his head with a modicum of politeness, and Anne fixes her tankard in a steely glare. She’s wearing all black these days, with only the barest hint of red peeking out under her hat.

“I come on behalf of Miss Bonny,” Jack says when they’ve exchanged all the necessary pleasantries, “and because I trust you’ll understand why I’m approaching you and not some other crew. Rumor has it you won’t sail out again for another week or two.”

Gates nods expectantly, and Flint seems to perk up a bit at his words, motioning for him to go on. Jack glances over to Anne, who glares at a spot somewhere between the two men sitting across from them.

“The problem, if you can even call it thus, is as follows,” Jack continues. “There have been incidents of an… unfortunate nature, not only aboard the _Ranger_ , and they’ve been handled, rest assured, but handled perhaps a smidgen too lethally. So we are looking for a way to, uh, refine Anne’s methods of dealing with such incidents. Anne is a fixture on our ship, her presence is simply non-negotiable, but the men insist she stop killing them for just… looking at her, or so they say. She’s learned all she can from Charles” — Gates raises an eyebrow at the way Jack refers to the _Ranger’s_ captain — “but there are qualities to his fighting style that few men can replicate, I’m afraid, and Anne —“

He breaks off. He’s not going to insult her by implying she’s lesser, somehow, but the fact is, at seventeen, she’s still a bit slighter than the smaller men on their crew.

“And, as you might know, the blade is not my forte,” Jack concludes diplomatically and gets the smile from Gates that he was looking for. “We’d like to handle this quietly, and outside our own, because they are, indeed, part of the problem here.”

“So…” Gates turns his tankard over in his hands. “You are looking for what? A trainer? Someone well-versed in the arts of self-defense?”

“Something like that, yes,” Jack says. “Someone who knows how to make his point without causing outright carnage, unless carnage is called for — we’ve lost too many crew members as it is. The man will be compensated, of course; we have the funds.”

Gates and Flint exchange a look, one that could take the place of a whole conversation, and Jack is relieved they’re not staring at Anne as though she has grown a horn in the middle of her forehead. He made the right choice, it seems, in coming to them.

“Joji!” Flint shouts, looking around, and it’s so sudden that Anne has her daggers drawn before anyone can stop her.

“Shhhh,” Jack places a hand on her arm. “It’s all right, darling, it’s all right.”

Anne hisses at him, but puts her weapons away.

Meanwhile, a man halfway across the room has turned his head, and Flint indicates for him to come over. He looks kind, and is, according to Flint, exceptionally skilled in just the ways they are looking for.

“I trust Joji with my life,” Flint says, after they’ve discussed the details of their arrangement. “You can come along, too, of course, but I’ll make sure no one bothers her aboard the _Walrus_.”

* * *

It turns out that Joji is just as taciturn as Anne, if not moreso, and that only helps them gain rapport with each other. Jack wonders how any verbal instruction takes place, but perhaps verbal instructions aren’t all that necessary in the simplifying company of knives.

He has never seen Anne as happy as she is when she returns from one of her sessions with him, a murderous smile on her face that turns into a happy grin when she climbs on top of him, a grin that says that no man will hurt her ever again.

Jack comes along to watch them the first few times, but then he has to oversee the preparations for their next prize and settle disputes among the men over the various merits of the town’s whores, of all things. But it looks as though Anne’s position on the crew is going to be safe, now that she can moderate her rage against her fellow crew members into something less fatal. Some gentle disfigurement, perhaps. 

The day before the _Ranger_ is set to sail out, he finds himself on the quarterdeck of the _Walrus_ , looking on as Joji and Anne sum up a number of methods to make a man regret he was ever born. There are steps behind him, and then Flint comes to stand next to him at the railing.

“She’s exceptional, you know. A quick study, and moving faster than anything.”

Jack beams at him, and he’s really so proud of his girl. “Hmm. She keeps saving my life for some reason — not that I’m not grateful. We’ll be pleased to have her back.”

“I think Joji might forgo payment.” A smile curls around the edges of Flint’s mouth. “But you should talk to him, of course.”

As they row over to the _Ranger_ a short while later, Jack feels warm and relaxed in a way he hasn’t in a long time. The sun is melting into the horizon out over the open ocean, and he can’t shake the feeling that this is their home, now. This is where they belong. If it’s possible for them to find their place in Nassau, maybe anyone can.

When he shares his thoughts with Anne, though, she only scoffs. Then she adds, with more affection than she’d ever show if they weren’t all alone in a longboat:

“Fuck you, Jack.”


	3. a thousand miseries at once (1711)

Flint is not against enjoying himself, as a general rule. It’s just that most of the moments others might find joy in, well, they only serve to remind him of the joys he’s squandered. These days he finds his pleasures elsewhere — usually at the sharp end of a blade — and he feels distinctly out of place at the bar of the Guthrie tavern tonight, nursing his rum with Gates at his side.

Gates, on the other hand, seems to be enjoying the evening, at least if his expression is anything to go by. He’s leaning against the bar and eyeing the crowd, pointing out a particularly fetching costume to Flint every once in a while. Flint then turns around with a scowl, and if he does find something or someone to his liking, the lines on his face only deepen.

Eleanor has insisted on his presence on this night of nights, and she’s underlined her argument with entreaties and no small amount of threats. It’s her annual new year’s party at the tavern, but a select few know the real occasion: her recent coming-of-age. As a friendly gesture towards her father, she has asked all patrons to come wearing items associated with the opposite sex, and she does look dashing with a dagger in her sword belt and her hair braided back beneath the lopsided tricorne. The pants she’s wearing hug her hips in an unprecedented way, or maybe that’s just the swagger she seems to have picked up along with the outfit.

Right now, she’s sitting in Vane’s lap in a corner of the tavern, trying to braid his hair. Vane smiles a little, indulging her, while she indulges his possessive hand on her backside and his pretense of ogling the other women in the bar when, in reality, he only has eyes for her.

There aren’t all that many women present, but the girls from the brothel across the street are having fun with tonight’s dress code. Some of them are in figure-hugging breeches and men’s shirts that fall open around their chests, baring their breasts with each twist of the torso. Others are wearing their usual dresses with an added flourish of belts and boots and cutlasses.

Flint has, of course, flouted Eleanor’s rule about the dress code, as have quite a few others. But doing so comes at a cost: the brothel girls have been instructed to interact only with those who participate. For Flint that’s a bonus, really, that is until he spots Logan with what appears to be bright red lipstick and dark eyeshadow, straddled by a blonde wearing one of Logan’s outfits and affecting the demeanor of a boy. Behind them, two pirates that Flint could swear are on opposing crews are kissing, and Flint huffs and buries his reflection in the rum in his tankard.

Gates is about to point out another far-too-appealing outfit to him when there is the clearing of a throat to his left. Flint jumps at the opportunity and is faced with Jack Rackham and Anne Bonny, both abiding by the dress code in their own way.

Rackham is wearing a pair of heavily embroidered pants, which he has chosen to combine with a red satin shirt that complements his skin tone. Underneath the shirt there must be some kind of brassiere, which has been stuffed generously. The effect is incongruous and not entirely unpleasant, and now Flint remembers the shouts of “Nice rack!” that went up a while ago — the men must have felt very witty, coming up with that one — back when he was busy dissociating at the sight of Logan and the blonde and the men behind them.

And in Rackham’s face — well, let’s just say that Flint regrets ever encouraging him to grow out his facial hair.

Rackham seems entirely unfazed by Flint’s up-and-down glance, and smiles brightly. He has an arm around Bonny who, thankfully, looks just like she always does, a reassuring sight both in terms of style and in her ever-present potential to deliver sudden death to someone as in need of it right now as him.

He silently pleads with Anne to take mercy on him, but even she betrays him by letting a corner of her mouth curve upwards in greeting. Rackham, meanwhile, full-on grins as the bartender hands him his ale.

“A delightful evening, is it not?”

Flint wants to murder Rackham but only manages to grunt his disapproval.

“Oh, don’t bother talking to him,” Gates cuts in from his other side. “Someone pissed in his porridge today, and he’s yet to recover. He’ll only communicate with spirits in liquid form.”

“Is that so?” Rackham shrugs. “Well, we’ve bought Joji a drink — might as well get one for the two of you.” 

Flint can’t quite fathom that he’s surrounded by merriment on both sides now, so he turns to the room and is forced to watch as a stunning dark-haired woman in a naval uniform asks Eleanor to dance. Eleanor tears herself away from Vane, deeming him sufficiently pretty, and takes the woman’s hand.

Together, they sweep across the small space that’s been cleared in the middle of the room. The woman in the Navy uniform is leading, and Eleanor, usually so collected and self-possessed, seems to float in her arms. When the music ends, Eleanor’s dance partner takes a small bow, loose curls falling into her face.

Something twists in Flint’s stomach, and then Rackham replaces his mostly empty tankard with a full one, breaking the spell. He marvels at the ease with which the _Ranger’s_ quartermaster seems to have slipped into his own brand of femininity — or is it a sort of fey masculinity? There’s an irony there that Rackham feels comfortable doing so from the relative safety of having Bonny on his arm while Flint — well. Flint could never. Flouting society’s norms has cost him far too much to be something to be played at, to be toyed with one night of the year when the rules don’t apply and people can let loose in full view of everyone else.

One night is a cruel joke. He’s always wanted so much more.

But now, as they stand at the bar, even Anne Bonny’s guarded glare has let up, and it’s to her Flint nods as he lifts his fresh tankard of rum.


	4. no gem, no treasure like to this (1715)

“You shit!”

The words reach Jack just as the door crashes into the wall, moved by an unstoppable force, and before Jack can fully get up and ignore the numbers in his books and his plans to rebuild the fort, Flint’s fingers are closing around his throat and his hands are lifting him up, and Anne, where the hell is Anne?

“You think you can steal my gold from me? The gold I have worked towards for months?” Flint’s face is so close Jack can feel his hot breath, see the vein on his forehead that’s beating in time with his wrath.

Jack tries to speak but a garbled mess comes out, and fuck, he can’t breathe. He is stuck between Flint and the wall, and he can see every detail on Flint’s face, every pore and every eyelash, but he can’t _do_ anything except wave his arms ineffectually, or kick his legs against Flint’s, and Flint seems to be made of stone and rage entirely.

“I know you’ll say you can explain, but frankly, I don’t care.” Flint tightens his grip on him. “I hope it felt good to betray me. I hope it was worth it.”

Darkness closes in at the edge of Jack’s vision, but then — if Flint wants to kill him, why isn’t he dead already? Black splotches dance in front of him, and there’s the sound of steps, and shouts, and Anne — is that Anne?

Flint’s hands are pulled off of him and he slumps to the ground, hearing the grunts of fighting around him, the hiss of steel. Before his vision fails, Jack sees long hair whipping around — Anne? Is Anne going up against Flint? That would be a nightmare, he has to warn her, he has to.

He tries to reach out, but he falters.

* * *

When Jack comes to again the first thing he sees is Charles Vane who immediately stops slapping his face. A few steps behind him there’s Flint, still breathing hard, blood on his hands and mouth. A dagger lies in the corner of the room, all but forgotten by both of them.

“Where’s Anne?” Jack’s voice is hoarse. “Is she all right?”

“Can you breathe?” Charles asks, ignoring his questions, and Jack takes a few careful breaths before he nods.

Charles helps him up while Flint spits blood onto the floor — and surely if Anne had been here, he wouldn’t still have the capacity to radiate anger like a small bright red sun. It must have been Charles he saw then, not Anne.

“Give me a good reason not to kill him right now,” Flint says, and Charles lifts his hands to calm him. His knuckles are cracked and also slightly blood-smeared.

“Does it matter who has the gold?”

Jack has never been happier to hear the deep rumble of Charles’ voice, especially when it’s the one he uses to settle disputes.

“Does it matter?” Flint repeats. “The fuck are you playing at, does it matter?”

“Listen.” Charles sheathes his own dagger, which means the one in the corner must be Flint’s. Which means that Flint, newly disarmed, is containing himself right now solely because he respects some sort of rule about honor in combat. Which, of course he does. Charles fixes him in his steady gaze. “When Eleanor took the girl from me and you sailed to Charlestown with my hostage, I wanted nothing more than to take the ship you’d promised me, and kill you. And I did, and then I didn’t. Because something mattered more. Because our freedom mattered more. Now, you can kill Jack, as is your right, or we can continue to work together in this.”

Jack looks on with increasing fascination as Flint runs his hands over his face and through his hair, stopping short at the shorn auburn bristles. Charles’ words seem to reach him, but only just.

“Jack here knows what’s good for him.” Charles glares at him, his eyes telling him to be quiet for once in his life. “And you owe me your life, your ship. I still want that man-of-war, and I should have it by rights, since you took the girl. What happens now is up to you, but you better think about what you’re doing.”

Flint sits down in Jack’s chair and sighs, deflated. He looks more broken than Jack can remember ever seeing him.

It’s quiet for a while, and when they continue talking it’s not the end of their negotiations, but rather the beginning of something Jack never thought possible.

With Eleanor Guthrie gone, it’s the beginning of true pirate rule in Nassau.


	5. here now, then there; the world is mine (1715)

When all the important details have been hashed out, all quirks and foibles of the _Walrus_ discussed and dissected, Flint is still stuck in place, unable to tear himself away from his ship and leave her in Jack Rackham’s capable hands. And capable they are, he trusts that. But he doesn’t quite trust the British Navy not to take this from him, too.

With a glass of port poured out for each of them, he feels slightly more at ease, even as he sits down on what he strongly feels is the wrong side of the desk. Rackham sits in the captain’s chair, face still scratched up from his little outing in Woodes Rogers’ carriage. If anyone had told Flint a few months ago that he’d let Rackham command his ship, he’d have thought them mad, and now here they are, facing an impossible battle, and he doesn’t even hold much of a grudge.

“She’s served me well, all those years,” Flint says, patting the desk. “Had her almost since the beginning.”

“She’s a beauty,” Jack agrees, “fast and sleek, but powerful nonetheless.”

“Did you ever hear how we came across her?” Flint asks, although he knows it’s only so he doesn’t have to leave just yet.

Rackham shakes his head no, then winces at the sudden movement. Flint sips his drink and sits back with the glass in hand.

“We’d just taken a prize. A British merchant ship on her way back to England, holding as many luxury goods as she could carry. Another pirate crew came along, must have tracked her as well. They thought we were easy pickings and tired out from battle. No one recognized my banner in those days, not yet.”

Rackham raises an eyebrow. “Well, that’s certainly changed.”

“It has. When I saw the other pirate vessel up close I knew I had to have her. Her captain sailed her too close to the wind, didn’t appreciate what he had at all. He also didn’t know that most of the merchant ship’s crew had joined us. They were sick of the horrible conditions on their ship, and they knew they’d get a share of the spoils if they came with us. Our force was almost twice as strong as before. When the pirate captain realized his mistake, it was already too late.”

“Who was it?” Rackham asks, but Flint just shrugs.

“Never cared enough to ask. No one, I suppose. His crew was made up of foul-mouthed bastards, and we left them on the plundered merchant ship as it was slowly sinking.”

Flint thinks back on those days, the exhilarating struggle to claw out a space for himself among the crews of Nassau. They drink quietly for a while.

“I know there are no certainties in this world,” Rackham says, taking up the thread of their conversation again while considering his surroundings, “but I’ll try my best not to let that happen to her.”

“If anyone sinks her, it’s probably better this way. Better if I’m not here.” Flint downs the rest of his drink and stands.

Rackham looks up at him, far too perceptive for Flint’s liking. “It’s never easy sharing something you love.”

“No,” Flint says. “No, it’s not. And sometimes it’s necessary, and you enter a new space within yourself and realize you had the capacity to do so all along.”

“You do?”

Rackham looks impossibly young for a moment, eyes wide, and Flint remembers the day they first met.

“I’m glad it’s you,” he says, “for what it’s worth.”

Rackham smiles, and finishes his drink. Flint takes a last look at his cot and the bookshelves.

“Now come on. We have a treasure to bury.”


	6. crown my soul with happiness (1718)

Jack finds the path to the cottage exactly as his scout described it. It’s only lightly overgrown, and tall shrubs and bushes protect it from the sea breeze, which is strong even on this balmy autumn day. He leaves Anne at a shaded spot halfway down the path — one pirate might be welcomed; two are a threat.

The path slopes downhill and opens onto a cliff top where it curves and forks and part of it U-turns into a steep decline down to the shore. Up ahead lies the cottage, complete with a view of the sea that’s only mildly impressive to Jack, for the sole reason that he sees enough of the ocean every day.

A tall, fair-haired man is working in the garden, hunched over and with his back to him. Jack has a good idea of who he might be even if Silver’s stories are all he has to go by — and even those descriptions were second-hand. It’s the middle of the day, but his scout was adamant that Thomas Hamilton would be out at the market. Jack takes a deep breath: he’s come too far to go back, and pirate intelligence has always been a fickle thing.

He approaches slowly, knowing he’ll look out of place. When he’s halfway to the cottage, Thomas spots him and stands upright, holding on to his trowel. Jack lifts a hand in an entirely inadequate gesture of greeting, and then he’s there, perhaps ten feet from him but eye to eye with Thomas Hamilton, who’s older than expected, but then again they all are.

Thomas looks him over, and then something within him seems to ease. “May I help you?”

“Perhaps you can, as a matter of fact. I’m here on behalf of someone who was once a dear friend of Captain Flint’s.” The title doesn’t seem to strike Thomas as odd. Jack lets his gaze wander over the cottage and the garden. “He goes by another name now, I’m sure, but — is he here?”

“I’m afraid you’ve missed him.” Thomas considers him for a beat. “Perhaps I can relay a message?”

Jack runs through his options. “I was worried you might say that. No matter, I only meant to return this.”

He reaches into his coat and pulls out a book. So far he’s kept a polite, non-threatening distance from Thomas but now he steps forward, holding it out. Thomas closes the distance and takes the slim volume, a Trojan horse in far too literate clothing, really. He stares at it and then at Jack as if he’s never seen a pirate wielding a book before, and perhaps he hasn’t if Flint has been successful in returning to a more “civilized” way of life.

Thomas turns the book over in his hands, studying the name and title while the wind pulls at the ivy covering the front of the house.

When Thomas remains silent Jack turns to go, then stops himself.

“Tell me,” Jack says, facing Thomas again. “Is he happy?”

Thomas looks out over the sea and the sky, and Jack vaguely remembers something Flint told him once, about wanting to settle down far inland.

“I believe so,” Thomas says when he looks back at him, “yes.”

A smile spreads over his face, smoothing out the thoughtful frown that grew there while studying the book and making his eyes crinkle. They shine with a warmth that makes Jack want to get back to Anne and hold her tight, and then return her to Nassau and to Max. It was worth coming out here after all, on what could have easily been a fool’s errand.

Jack returns the smile, and they look at each other for a moment, strangers united in their affection for an absent man. Then he nods, and takes his leave.

Anne waits for him where he left her, and there is no sign of Flint — or of James, or someone else entirely — although he could have been in the house all along, Jack supposes. But he doubts it. 

It’s hard to know whether he’s done the right thing. Then again, by now he has a feeling that often, even if you have, you won’t always be able to recognize it. The right thing can change underneath you, like Anne has, iridescent and mercurial and so, so alive. All you can do is move with it, and try your best to hold on. And he’s always had a tendency to be far too critical of himself.

He thinks of the book, and of the hand holding the quill, moving over the page, only shaking slightly.

The book is Jack’s, but the message isn’t.

_You were right. I’m sorry._

_M. left, but we had a daughter. I named her after you._

_John_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my beautiful wife for beta-reading and brainstorming a couple of ideas with me. <3
> 
> I'm riotsofbloom on tumblr — come shout about Black Sails with me!
> 
> Comments, questions, thoughts of any kind are always welcome.


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